$2,400 on a wax figure

1223
the heat is on
the heat is on the heat is on

and the rings are on the side of the tub
and an actress from the 80's bubbles
around the white paint chips on the floor


and ringlets have more than one meaning

1224(5)

Cells

The universe created us to appreciate it, which seems to be the true purpose of endowing consciousness. It is also why we perceive such a large variance in our relationship to the universe, the horrid and the sublime are both aspects of our perception. Our perception of the world is our place in it. Our place in it is part of everything else.

This then, is a story about everything that exists.

This is about a woman whose ideas are observations. It is drab. There are no resolutions. It is everything life is, but which we never wish for ourselves. It is boring. It is a colossal waste of time. It should never be crafted and put in this world, but is everything the world asks of us.

We will begin with nothing happening. Well, many things are actually happening. She wakes up. She isn’t late and doesn’t need an alarm clock. She takes her time slowing gaining consciousness and proceeds to sit up in her single bed. She gets out. She turns and smoothes the covers down pat. She feels a squirt of glee and then a quick wave of annoyance as she spies her slippers. She folded down the sheet without putting them on at the same time. This was a time waste. She is better than that. She can multitask because useful people multitask and she is useful. She vows to save time by shaving her armpits while the conditioner in her hair soaks in. She knows it needs time because the conditioner bottle tells her it does and she always reads and follows directions. This is also why, when she makes her breakfast, and finds herself low on cereal, she confidently reaches back to the shelf where behind the box of generic she has just pulled lies another box. Not the same store brand, but the same sort of cereal. This grocery had their cereal at a few cents cheaper, and this fact had gotten her to notice the second store’s coupons and track them against her normal grocery store costs. When she had taken gas and time into account, she found the new store to be a few cents cheaper for her to shop at. All of the products in her home were now backed up with the new markets products. She is loyal only to price. She does not eat for taste.

Unfortunately, her profession isn’t one where we can find interest in its bland nature. It isn’t universally reviled, we will find no glamour in her persistence to carry on despite crushing repetition, as we might find with technical manual proofreaders, nor will we find her sitting behind a desk attempting to break out of the morass that she finds herself in, as we might with a rogue accountant who invents a better form. No, she is quite content to drive her beige car, awash in easy listening, to a job where she has exhibited an unwavering average ability for eight years.

On her lunch break, she waits her turn for the microwave in the employee lounge. While she waits, she rips off a single panel of paper towel as she has found that she’s forgotten a napkin. She does not announce this to anyone as she knows it isn’t very interesting. She eats with one or two people that have also brought their lunch and then she goes back to work. Her office has gray flattened carpet and her chair is black with black roller wheels. It sits on a clear plastic pad that allows her limited ability to glide around.

She writes a to-do list to herself before leaving work. She powers down her computer and turns off the red battery strip button with a light push of her shoe.

She makes hard boiled eggs. She watches tv while folding her clothes. She thinks about but doesn’t take a bath. She reads a story in a magazine and puts on moisturizer. She pauses in the hall to adjust her hair. She talks on the phone. She brushes her teeth.

She goes to sleep quickly and on her back. She does not dream.

This is what her cells want. This is what the universe needs.

a leash is only a rope with a noose at both ends

fit as a butcher's dog.

He was a good dad, screaming about tent forts and electrolytes.

indentations; soil and soul

129
indentations are funny things

and the smell of mold in a dark office space can't just be coming from the carpet
and when it rains the concrete bunker that you've worked in for twenty years
only seems appropriate, right somehow
at least the waxy plant on your head high window has a view
and the rattle of the duct is the whisper of a confidant
and the dust bunnies always roll towards the left corner
and your mind settles like warm laundry in the basement hamper
and you do not dream of anything
except distant moons and what shadows would feel like

what sort of mind architect?
what sort of airy spaces must you be rebelling against, what sort of sunshine birthday cake varsity teams must have lead to the monolithic design, the monster
you must have had a sister who adored a cat
named mr. whiskers
and a mom who insisted on dinner with the family at least twice a week
where were your summers
left sunkissed and wondering
fascinated by dark alleys and
grim news of others
and you dream always about boundaries
and wonder mostly about depth and risk and danger

and grey days
and the kids stay inside
and the cars hiss by
and earthworms are happy
149

what is really being said

1111
and i
for the first time
maybe
wished for more hum from the world
more bustling of insects

or perhaps the murmur of the diner
the clinking glasses and cloth skidding across vinyl booths

or the background static on long distance phone calls
phantoms chiming in, the hiss and pop of a fire at full blaze

or the gargling din of my ears underwater
the shrieks and laughs transported through vast steel drums, the kind with massive ridges like a cheap soup can

the sound of what is really being said
1125